Boundary Condition
by azrathiel
Summary: Life seems strangely purposeless now Voldemort has been defeated. What's left for the Boy-Who-Lived, his life no longer subject to the whims of a prophecy? Returning to school seems like the perfect solution to Harry. Draco/Harry ON PERMANENT HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

_No this is how it works _

_You peer inside yourself_

_You take things you like_

_And try to love the things you took_

_And then you take that love you made _

_And stick it into some - _

_Someone else's heart _

_Pumping someone else's blood_

Regina Specktor 'On the Radio'

The first time Harry saw Malfoy after the war he had just been with his friends shopping for Christmas and laughing so hard he thought his sides might melt. "No, it's true," protested Ron with a wheeze, "she never saw it coming, just bang. Right into her hand, just like that." He clapped his sister congenially on the back. "Only Ginny could unintentionally catch the quaffle in her search for the snitch." And then he cracked up again.

Harry grinned conspiratorially at Ginny as he gave Ron a gentle shove towards Fortescue's. "Look who's arrived," he commented blandly. Waiting for Ron to look up, restraining the urge to shout 'Hermione's here!' at the top of his voice.

Ron gave a whoop of delight as he caught sight of 'Mione's dark curls, and he rushed forward only to stop inches away from her. "Uh, 'Mione." He said brushing a hand self-consciously through his hair.

"Just hug her already," stated Ginny loudly just behind them. Ron blushed furiously but, as if given permission, leant forward and tentatively put his arms about Hermione.

"About time you got here," Harry commented, selfishly pushing his way into the hug. Pulling both Ron and Hermione towards him in a dramatic gesture. "Missed you both," he whispered softly reluctantly letting go of his two best friends.

"You only saw us both yesterday," Ron whispered back grinning.

"Yeah, well," commented Harry, as it was his turn to sheepishly scrub at his hair.

"Don't I get a hug?" Ginny suddenly demanded, standing tellingly close to Harry's shoulder.

"Sure you do," said Harry. Spinning round he gave her a quick squeeze before saying, "Hey, I have a definite urge for something disgustingly rich. Let's go get ice cream."

If Harry hadn't spent the better part of the previous year being chased by a megalomaniac wizard and developing a sixth sense when it came to his surroundings he never would have noticed the look Hermione and Ron exchanged, or the red faced hurt on Ginny's face.

As it was he forged ahead, not wanting to confront something he wasn't sure he could fix.

Today was for sunshine and happiness. Today was for shopping and laughing and friends. "I think I want triple chocolate," Harry declared boldly.

...

"Strawberry," said Ginny, trying, trying so hard to hide her hurt that Harry could almost convince himself she'd succeeded and he didn't need to pretend not to see her face.

"Vanilla," said Hermione to a chorus of groans from her friends. "What?"

"Hermione, it's just, sometimes it's actually physically painful, just how predictable you can be," said Ron companionable swinging an arm over her shoulder and dragging her towards the restaurant.

Once settled at a table outside Fortescues happily slurping up ice-cream the friends all took turns awkwardly trying to start a conversation.

"I..."

"What..."

"How're..."

Harry only was silent as one by one the others searched for something to say that wasn't made painful by memories.

"Will you be going back to school?" asked Ron, finally. Looking at Harry and Hermione. "It's just Professor McGonagall did invite... and I was wondering..." he trailed off staring out towards the shops crowded with people celebrating survival.

"I won't be," said Hermione suddenly. Holding up a hand at their surprise she said gently. "I don't need to. I've been asked to attend Trinity University, they've actually given me my choice of courses, and it's an opportunity I can't miss. As much as I'd love to return to Hogwarts."

Harry knew what Ron was going to say before it was said. He had seen the envelope on the dining room table two days ago. And had known then just what it had meant to Ron. "I won't be going back either," he said as decisively as possible fiddling with the collar of his shirt. "I've been asked to play quidditch, for the Canon's Harry, and they've offered to fund me at university as well. I can't say no. I mean. I would have. But Hermione, you won't be there, and Harry... I mean you won't be going back, the offers..."

"Why wouldn't I go back?" asked Harry abruptly. Perhaps he had known what Ron was going to say, but that didn't make it any easier. Ron wasn't the only one to get a letter from The Cannons, and Hermione wasn't alone in her offer of university studies. In fact Harry knew that by now he had probably been offered free training in almost every occupation the wizarding world held as suitable for The Boy Who Lived. And money for anything that wasn't.

'_Be my personal catamite...'_ had been Harry's all time favourite. He thought one day that he might use the proposal to shock his friends. The sum stated as pay was a ludicrously large amount. In one night Harry could have made his fortune.

But he didn't want a fortune. He didn't want power or prestige, for all that the wizarding world seemed intent on foisting it upon him. He wasn't sure what he wanted. He still felt like the year before had occurred in some form of limbo where time didn't pass. He didn't feel old enough yet to leave Hogwarts. He still felt the need to be a child clinging to the safety of his parent's skirts. In truth, he wasn't ready to leave home.

"I'm going back," he said simply. He smiled sadly in Hermione's direction, "I think I have a lot to learn before I can skip a year to attend university," he commented.

Ron sat silently staring at the ice-cream bowl cupped in his hands. "But Harry," he protested eventually. "The other day..."

"The other day I was telling you just how great it would be to be able to play quidditch professionally. I saw the letter Ron. I was encouraging you to go."

Ginny stared at Harry, "you mean, you're coming back to Hogwarts, when you could be... I don't know, training to be an Auror or something," she asked. Harry nodded. "Oh, Harry," she cried and flung her arms about his neck. And Harry couldn't help but feel she had somehow managed to get the wrong message.

...

Harry had always thought of Hogwarts as home, but if Hogwarts was home and the Dursley's his own personal version of hell then Grimauld Place was strangely in between the two. He'd almost instinctively disliked the house from the very first moment he set foot in it. Its dark hallways and even darker atmosphere serving to constantly amplify Harry's depression and despair.

But the house had been Sirius' and he had given it to Harry - _to my godson, may he do with it whatever he wishes –_ and Harry had heard the words and thought of demolition_._ Harry had a vague idea that had almost been what Sirius had wanted, for him to rebuild, something grand and _his_. But he found now, that with Sirius' death like a ghost in his memory it wasn't something he could do.

So he had avoided the house for as long as possible even after the Order had moved out.

And after the war had finally came to a halt, lumbering to a stop several weeks after Voldemort was killed, Harry had been asked by not one, but twelve wizarding families, if he would now like to live with them. The first to ask had, of course, been the Weasley's. Then the Diggory's, the Dean's and even the Zabinni's.

Hermione's offer had been tentative. The Wealey's assured, assuming a resulting yes. Others had been proud, some conciliatory, some begging. And Harry had just wanted to escape from everyone. So he had.

He had torn every offer in a fit of rage and ensconced himself in Grimauld Place before anyone could prise him out.

Hermione had been hurt, and so had Ron. They seemed to have been harbouring some thought of living together once the war was finished. Despite the fact Harry knew he would have driven everyone mad within moments, including himself.

So it was that after ice-cream and the formation of an uneasy resolve Ron and Ginny returned the Burrow, apparating, Hermione excused herself at the entrance to the muggle world and Harry wandered towards the Fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron.

...

Harry was almost at the Leaky Cauldron when he realised something peculiar was going on in his peripheral vision.

He had wandered past the same piece of blank wall several times in excursions to the Alley and that's all it was. Just a piece of blank brick, perhaps several feet across, between Eylops Owlery and Sissingtons Alchemia.

But now as he passed he saw from the corner of his eyes a small alcove. Not deserving of the name alley. Merely a dip in the structure allowing room enough for perhaps two, maybe three people, but no more.

He looked more closely. Brick, just brick.

Blink. Look to the side, and there, barely registering on peripheral vision, an alcove. With a body pushed up against the wall.

Touch it, and all his hands registered was brick, all he could see in his field of vision was brick. But there had been a body in there. Collapsed, or shoved into the wall. Perhaps hurt, perhaps dead. And Harry couldn't leave someone like that.

So he turned his head again, until he could see the alcove from the sides of his eyes and slowly reached out a hand, fully expecting to encounter the rough surface of brick. Instead he passed through easily fell on his knees beside the body and behind him witches and wizards went about their business.

...

Harry hadn't always hated Malfoy. Sometimes he managed indifference, at other times he managed irritation. But the fact was only once in his life had Malfoy managed to inspire in Harry any feelings other than the usual.

He'd appeared a Grimauld Place several months into the true war, when wizarding London was in shambles and the Order was fighting with everything they had to merely survive.

His face had been cut, and there were bruises on every visible body surface. His first words had been: _let me help. _His second:_ that blood traitor killed my parents._

Harry had been surprised that he'd even thought to come to the Order. And then annoyed that Malfoy who in Harry's mind was a git, always and in every was a stupid idiotic git, had obviously managed to put aside his pride and arrogance to ask for help from those he'd been taught to loath.

It niggled at Harry that Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, had managed to do something Harry was sure he could never have done himself. But slowly out of waves of jealousy and envy there had come to be several tiny beads of respect.

Of course, that was really the only time Harry saw Malfoy during the war. He was the centre the hub about which the war efforts proceeded. He didn't have time to concern himself with a blond haired boy who'd surprised everyone with his loyalty his family. During the war Malfoy was nothing more than a blond haired fighter who barely registered on Harry's radar.

But Harry had given him respect once, and as he turned over his beaten body in the alley, he found he could also give him compassion.

...

Malfoy's face was pale and beside the coarse grey of cobbles he looked wraithlike and translucent. His eyes were closed, lashes lightly brushing his cheeks, and his body was cold.

Harry was almost thankful for the medi training the war had forced on him, as he slowly took Malfoy's pulse and ran a diagnostic spell to see where the damage was. But as the pulse beneath his hands ran steady, and the spell came up blank he sat back on his heels and knew that whatever this was it wasn't curable by a quick _curo_.

Raising his right hand above his head he let of three bright red sparks whose particular frequency would be immediately sense by the emergency room at St. Mungo's

Help would be on its way. Capable help. Adult help. Harry could leave now, and within ten minutes Malfoy would be in the hands of Mediwitch's who knew exactly what they were doing.

It was a temptation. Running away.

Harry had avoided almost all publicity since the war, letting himself be bullied into only one interview, conducted in the presence of Moody and McGonagall. Even today he was avoiding notice, wearing a light glamour Remus had taught him before he died.

But if he was here when the Medi-Team arrived, he would almost certainly have to give his name at some point. There would be paperwork, and signatures and whole realm of fuss that Harry could quiet happily live without.

But the boy before him stirred wincing and curling inward around some internal pain. And Harry knew he wouldn't leave.

...

It was illogical, totally, utterly and blazingly illogical. Not only was Harry told that Malfoy was _'quiet all right,' _and that the pain he was feeling was '_psychosomatic'_. Now he was being told that Mungo's didn't have room to keep him overnight and that he was going to be released without anyone so much as contacting his family or friends.

They'd arrived probably two hours before. Harry apparating just behind the Medi-Team as they moved Malfoy to a waiting chamber.

There'd been questions, _Who are you? – What's your relationship with? – How did you find?_

And then there'd been quiet.

Malfoy still hadn't woken up. He been moved to one of the hospital beds and his robes exchanged for a hospital gown.

He still looked frail and as he had shifted uneasily in his sleep Harry had been struck by his vulnerability. Malfoy asleep was not like Malfoy awake.

Malfoy awake was unpleasant, with a smirk and sneer. His pride visibly overriding any and every good point he may have had. Malfoy asleep was lost and vulnerable, with a soft face and a grace that was lost in the tension of living when he was conscious.

Harry had sat for a good thirty minutes waiting for someone to come, run some tests, say _'yes he'll be fine,_' and _'we'll look after him. You can go home now.'_

His mind had wandered surprisingly calmly over the last eight years of his life. From the moment at which chance had made him choose Ron instead of Malfoy, to the point at which he had acknowledged to himself that Malfoy wasn't perhaps as bad as he had seemed.

During the war a lot of things had changed in Harry. He'd come to understand that those who followed Voldemort often had as little choice about it as he did in fighting. His respect for Malfoy had grown, as among the many children of Death Eaters he was one of the rare few who had turned to the Order.

Yet Harry had realised, fate was fate. Whether it presented itself in the form of a wand to your parent's necks or a prophecy voiced before you were born. Malfoy had only been able to leave Voldemort when Narcissa had finally killed herself, leaving the Dark Lord with no leverage and Malfoy with less than no reason to stay.

Other's had not been so lucky. Crabbe had fought to death at the Fell, because his father was in one of the Dark Lords labyrinthine cells. Goyle had fled Europe only when his younger sister had drowned herself. The war had harmed so many of them. Forced them to commit actions that had twisted and pulled them out of shape.

And Harry had respected Malfoy, because instead of running when he could have, he chose to hurt those who had hurt him. Fight the evil he perceived in Voldemort and his followers.

But Harry did wonder just what damage such a decision had caused.

After the war Harry had been angry. Not just at Voldemort, or the Death Eaters, but at his friends and his family. The dead and the living. Everyone and anyone who came within a two mile radius was in danger of becoming a target to his rage.

Hermione had pleaded with him to calm down, and Ron had muttered under his breath that maybe he needed a vacation. Far, far, far away.

Harry hadn't been able to make them understand that he needed to be angry. That the war had torn something within him, and the anger kept the world at bay as he began to heal. Instead he had left the Burrow and formed a home for himself in Grimauld Place, where if he shouted at pictures they damn well shouted back.

It had taken him till now, some four months since the official end of the war. Four months after the memorial service, the awards ceremony and the appearance of his one and only public interview for him to begin to calm down.

It was only now, that he was beginning to realise just what the war had done to others as well.

Hermione had become far quieter. Her ideas no less brilliant, but they were no longer presented as certainty. A shadow of doubt had entered her soul, and Harry wondered if she would ever get it back.

Ron had lost his innocence. He'd always been just a little oblivious to subtext. To messages and conversations that occurred at a level below the verbal. Now he could read Hermione's mood from a look, and have entire conversations with his eyes. Now, Ron was hypersensitive to others moods. Sometimes it surprised Harry that he'd been the only one to run away. But Ron had chosen his path, he'd chosen to comfort the pain he now saw in his family, not flee from it.

Sometimes Harry hated himself for running away, but the night Ginny had come to his room crying from nightmares and expecting him to be her hero he'd realised he couldn't stay.

As he'd sat waiting beside Malfoy's bed he'd realised he was gazing at the face of yet another person who was changed by the war. Because it would have been impossible to have survived that much pain and horror and emerge the same as before.

And now, as he stood in the corridor facing a tall, stick thin medi-witch he realised that he felt a kinship to Malfoy. Survival forged ties stronger than blood, and Harry knew that Draco's survival, now, was as important to him as his own.

"What do you mean there's nothing wrong?" he asked genuinely bemused and beginning to get a little angry.

"I mean Mr. Potter," said the witch, her face falling into a stern pattern that said she refused to let his identity affect her, "that there is nothing medically wrong with Mr. Malfoy. There is nothing in the scans to suggest any physical damage, and there have been no spells cast on his person recently. He is well. And as soon as he awakes we are releasing him."

"But," asked Harry, lost, "where will he go?"

Because there was very obviously something wrong with Malfoy. And maybe only Harry could see it. A person didn't voluntarily curl up in a magically hidden alcove and go to sleep. And Malfoy would be the last person Harry could see going on an all night bender and collapsing on his way home. Besides, apparently, the scans had given a negative to foreign substances in his blood stream.

"Where he goes is not our business, Mr. Potter," said the Medi-witch. "Now, if you please, I have other patients to see."

...

Harry had two more hours of thinking to do before Malfoy woke up. His eyes snapping open suddenly, and all the tension flooding back into his body and forcing in upright.

"Potter?" he asked. Staring at Harry sitting in the chair beside the bed, feet tucked up beneath his legs and magazine open on his lap.

"Malfoy," Harry rejoined. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Where the devil am I?" asked Malfoy staring at the unfamiliar room before giving a slight shake of the head. "Mungo's," he muttered.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "I found you, just outside the Leaky cauldron. You were in a pretty bad way. Care to tell me why?"

Malfoy gave him a blank look.

"You were unconscious, Malfoy. On the pavement, near the Leaky Cauldron. Any idea why?" enunciated Harry carefully.

"What?" asked Malfoy. "Last I know I was headed back from Flourish and Blots. For some very well deserved rest. In a bed. Not as far as I know on the cobblestones. So, who cursed me? You?"

"No!" Harry protested. "I just found you. You'd been shoved into a hidden alcove. I thought you were hurt, but the medi-witch says there's absolutely nothing wrong with you. So apparently it wasn't a curse anyway."

"It has to be a curse Potter," said Malfoy in a tone reserved for children and animals. "I wouldn't just choose to collapse in Diagon Alley, now would I?"

Harry had to agree with him, but he was damned if he was going to verbalise that agreement.

"What did the medi-witch tell you anyway?"

"That you were fine, with the diagnostics returning as clean, clean, healthy, and clean. Nothing to suggest there was a single reason for your collapse in the Alley."

"Oh, well, if there's nothing wrong with me..." Malfoy said suddenly sliding from the bed. "No reason to stay..." He eased off the side of the bed opposite Harry and over towards the rack holding his robes. Which he slid over his head before muttering the spell that would return the hospital gown to cleaning and storage.

"What are you doing here anyway, Potter?" asked Malfoy snidely. "Enjoying the show," he leered in Harry's direction and Harry almost expected him to make an obscene gesture.

Harry just rolled his eyes and stood up, brushing the creases out of his robes. "In your dreams Malfoy," he retorted. "If you must know I was concerned for you," he cocked his head in Malfoy's direction, "won't be doing that again."

Malfoy opened his mouth, just about to reply when the stick posing as a medi-witch entered the room. Draco closed his mouth and frowned at her, while Harry barely heard her introducing herself and explaining to Malfoy his condition. Or at least in her opinion his non-condition.

The truth was Harry had been enjoying the show. And he was waiting for it to hit him that he should so totally be having a sexual identity crisis right about now.

Thankfully he was distracted by Malfoy chucking a trademark hissy fit.

"What do you mean, 'maybe it was self induced'? I'll have you know Malfoy's do not attack themselves and dump their own bodies in hidden alcoves in an attempt to rot to death. We may be many things, but we have never been known to be crazy."

"Mr. Malfoy, all I am suggesting..."

"Is that I'm crazy?" Malfoy cocked an accusing eyebrow.

"No, I assure you..."

"That this has been a monumental cock up, and you will have several qualified curse-breakers attempt to discover what was done to me?" asked Malfoy sarcastically.

"I'm afraid..." the medi-witch was being to feel just a little bit annoyed by now. Harry could tell. She was turning puce.

"You really do think I'm crazy, don't you?" said Malfoy, not at all derailed by the colour of his victim. "Potter, she really thinks I'm crazy." He cast a earnest glance in Harry's direction. "You don't think I'm mad do you? No wait, what am I thinking, asking Potter, of course you think I'm mad. Well I'll have you know I'm not!"

Malfoy bridled and straightened. "I'm not mad, but I am leaving." And he pushed past the medi-witch and out the door.

...

It turned out that Malfoy's threats of departure were just that, threats. Because before he could leave he had to fill out a million and one documents detailing just how wonderful his stay had been and just how happy he was to be leaving.

Harry hovered at an almost constant two meter radius as Malfoy waded his way through the discharge papers.

"I do believe you," he said eventually, because he was a Gryffindor and refused to be cowed by Malfoy's bastion of silence.

"Oh yay, my life is again worth living. I am not mad and the world shall dance about the sun once more. Potter believes me and my very being is fulfilled," Malfoy said snidely as he absently turned to the next piece of paper. "What makes you think I want your opinion?" he asked glancing up at Harry while arching one of his ever expressive eyebrows.

"Well," said Harry defensively, "you did ask."

"Of course I did," muttered Malfoy, "of course... Potter what are you still doing here, anyway?" He stared at Harry genuinely puzzled.

"Making sure you're all right," offered Harry half-heartedly. He really didn't know why he was hanging around either.

"Well obviously I'm alright. You can leave now," Malfoy made a vague shooing gesture with his right hand as he wrote.

"But..."

"Potter, exactly what part of perfectly healthy did you not understand? You can leave, depart, disappear. As I will be doing just as soon as I am finished here. Then we can mutually forget that this embarrassing little incident occurred and live our lives without ever thinking of one another again. Understand. You don't need to be here," Malfoy looked at him, irritated.

"You'll be fine?" asked Harry, groaning inwardly as Malfoy smirked.

"Aw, Potter, didn't know you cared. Of course I'll be fine. I shall leave here and return to my rooms at the Leaky Cauldron none the worse for wear, according to that charming imposter in the medi-witch outfit. Now leave. Please. Before you embarrass us both any more than you already have."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, anything. Only to be halted by Malfoy raising a hand.

"Leave now. Don't say anything. Just leave," said Malfoy still staring at his papers.

So Harry left. Looking back several times, watching as Malfoy hunched forward about the forms, quill scratching response after response.

And wondering how long he would manage to hold out before he went to the Leaky Cauldron on an entirely innocent visit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Right, so apparently, I either write two thousand words a night, or can't put pen to paper for a week. I'm sorry this took so long to update, but I hope that it's sort of, maybe, worth the wait?**

Chapter Two

After the war time took on a new meaning for Harry.

Before the war he'd moved at a slower pace. Now everything whirls about him, and just as he thinks he can reach out and grasp the moment it is pulled away.

As a child he'd seemed to have all the time in the world. He'd sweated for hours on the Dursley's garden, crouched in the tree for absolutely _millenniums _before Aunt Marge had called off her dogs. Spent positively _eons_ staring out the school window, waiting, just waiting for something (_anything_) to happen.

Then Voldemort had come, and with him a feeling of time speeding past. Of not enough hoursminutesseconds to do what needed to be done. And every time Harry paused to breath, it seemed another person would die, another muggle would be found tortured to death.

And every time he blamed himself.

Of course he blamed himself. This war was on his shoulders, had been from the moment the prophecy had smashed in the Department of Mysteries. Had been, even before that, when Voldemort had chosen him instead of Neville. Placed his mark on Harry. Visible. For everyone to see.

The war had been his responsibility and sometimes he felt he could never make up for the lives that were lost as, day after day, he watched others fight his battles. As, day after day, he stood sheltered by the Order, unable to do anything until the _time was frigging right_.

Time had sped past. And the only way to cope had been to pushshovecastaside all feelings that hindered. All the guilt he should have felt, could have felt, had he only let himself.

During the war, his war, he had been aware of what others did for him. But couldn't allow himself to feel their pain. Truly feeling their emotions. Because if he had, it would have destroyed him.

Had known, but not understood.

But it had been his war. And was his war still. And it seemed he'd built up a debt of guilt to be given to those who had fought.

Since the war it seemed that all the feelings he should have felt, would have felt had he not been tied up fighting for the _world_, had hit him all at once. As if they had been stored up, somewhere in his mind and heart.

He found himself, now, spending _so much_ time thinking of those the war hurt. Those he hurt. Those nameless faceless enemies in white masks, bent on destruction and revenge for the wrong magic had done them in coming alive in those of lesser birth.

He dreamed at night of green light and spells that ripped men's hearts from their chest while still beating. Of women who screamed as their skin was shredded from their muscle and bones, strip by strip.

But most of all he dreamed of the prisons, full to bursting during that war. Prisons commandeered by both side, where regardless of whether you called yourself light or dark, you were required to do things... unspeakable things to others.

Harry hadn't spent long in the dungeon. He had been needed for more important tasks, the prophecy dictating his every move. But others he knew, Justin Fintch-Fletchley, Padma Patil... they had been the prisons wardens. The torturers.

Parvati said Padma still wouldn't speak of what she had done.

They were the true casualties of the war. Those whose lives had been destroyed so utterly destroyed that they could never be returned, that never could they live normally. Enjoy the sunlight on their faces and the grass beneath their feet. That in every waking moment of every day, they felt the urge to atone for past mistakes, to feel heavily the guilt laid upon their shoulders by those such as Harry who demanded more of them than any person should ever be expected to give.

Those who had died had escaped such a burden, and sometimes Harry found himself wondering in it wouldn't have been better to have been one of the multitudes that died.

He knew intimately the guilt of those who had manned the prisons. On more than one occasion he had asked that acts unspeakable be done to others. And he had felt no remorse. For it was not the time for remorse, for those feelings that would send you to your knees if you let them.

But now. Now the war was over and the dark cloud of Voldemort and his followers was gone. Now he remembered every action he had sanctioned, every person he had ever touched in hatred, and he vowed never to do so again.

...

Draco Malfoy was a study in scarlet as he walked towards Flourish and Blotts.

Well, to tell the truth he was a study in scarlet and black, in which the only scarlet to be seen was (and let's admit it, a Malfoy would hardly be seen dead in scarlet – and Draco is still _mostly_ a Malfoy) the inner lining of his coat.

But still. Harry saw that scarlet and his heart was warmed.

Not because he held any ridiculous notion that the colour (on a Malfoy! A Malfoy!) would imbue the wearer with any form of empathy for Gryffindor.

Or well, not fully because of that.

And the other reason... well he didn't really want to consider the other reason.

No really. He didn't.

But then... he hadn't actually lectured himself on his sexuality before. That was new. And rather detrimental to the plan of _not thinking about it._ No really.

But there was the lecture. In his head. In third person. And wow, how many synonyms for _cute_ did he know?

But still, there is no way Malfoy is _hot_. There is no way. In this world or the next. Malfoy just isn't good looking. Really Harry, he's not. He's _really _not. Good looking? No. Handsome? No. That rather alarming adjective there... you know _sexy_... Just - just no. A thousand no's.

But still... Malfoy. In crimson...

And he was thinking in terms of shades. Of red.

Red was red. Any hot blooded heterosexual male knew that. But here he was contemplating the pros and cons of crimson vs. scarlet vs. burgundy. And he hadn't even realised he knew those terms. He was sounding so camp. So _gay_.

And there it was. That word. _Gay._

Harry had, admittedly, gone through a brief period in which he'd considered being gay. It had seemed rather attractive when he'd been young and foolish. And Oliver Wood had just scored that goal and was glistening with sweat...

Ahm...

But the truth was, there'd been Cho, and Ginny, and there was no way he wasn't attracted to girls. I mean, he'd had more than the token amount of hard on's when an attractive girl was around. And he was horny.

And well, if his fantasies were anything to go by he was as heterosexual as they come.

Breasts figured. As did, to put it bluntly, vagina's.

Penises? Not so much.

Being gay had been a good idea, theoretically. Because, well, he'd kind of figured boys might be a little less _wet_, and _clingy_. And well - not as much _fuss_. But in practice? Well, he just didn't think he was capable of it. Gayness, and all.

Except, apparently, when Malfoy was in the room.

And wasn't that a blow. Harry had figured if he was going have a sexual identity crises it would be over someone like Ron. Or Charlie, or Oliver. Someone _reasonable_.

But no. His hormones had chosen Malfoy. _Malfoy_ of all people.

And no, Malfoy was not good looking. No matter what his body was telling him.

He was a ferret. Too pale, too pinched. And he had those alarmingly scary blue eyes. And that hair. Greasy and urgh. And greasy. And urgh. And his skin, well... okay maybe his skin was... but no. It was dry and guh. And... his – his... he was too short. Way too short. Barely a head taller than Harry... And...

And...

Well. He wasn't cute. He wasn't.

Really...

...

"I'm know I'm gorgeous, Potter. But really, do you have to stare quiet so intently?" Malfoy's voice cracked through Harry's reverie. As he sauntered down the stairs from the upper level of Flourish and Blotts.

Harry mentally screamed several four letter words at himself along the lines of _you s head, why the f weren't you paying attention, fff _and so on.

"Cute?" his mouth replied, thankfully no longer hotwired to his brain. "You?"

He thought perhaps the condescending tone could have been more convincing. And, well – the way his voice had cracked on the last word? Totally gave him away. But anything was better than saying _Malfoy for some reason I find you insanely attractive, pleasepleaseplease sleep with me. NOW! _Because that would have been _insane _and – well... _insane_. And rather more likely than he cared to admit.

But still...

He'd totally given himself away.

"God, Potter. You really do find me attractive, don't you?" asked Malfoy, stepping close. And why did he feel the need, now, of all times, to start invading Harry's personal space?

"N-no," said Potter. Because well. He may have totally given himself away. But it wasn't like he was going to admit it.

Never. Even if he had to stay away from Malfoy for the rest of his life just to make sure he failed to admit it. Even then.

And if he weren't standing at the foot of a very public stairwell in a very public building he would have turned and fled. Fleeing was allowed.

Except when it meant humiliating himself in public.

Nothing, not even Malfoy, was worth a week of Rita Skeeter's headlines.

"Sure you do," said Malfoy, his breath rather disconcertingly brushing against Harry's cheek. "Now, why did you want to see me?"

"W-who said I was..." Harry started.

"Potter you've been stalking me for the past three days. I'm not blind, you know. And well – I don't think even a Gryffindor would sink to sexual harassment. So you must be following me for a reason other than this – um – _crush_. So obviously you want to talk to me," Malfoy paused, a speculative look coming into his eyes, "but then, you never know. You're not going to try and rape me or anything are you?"

Harry coughed a little. Then spluttered. Then coughed a little more.

"I'll take that as a no, shall I?" asked Malfoy.

Harry found his voice, which unfortunately seemed to have gone up an octave in its absence. "I wouldn't... I'd never... I don't..."

Malfoy just blinked. "You really need to work on your verbal skills, Potter. Sentences are actually meant to be finished. We may be wizards but we're not telepathic. Well – I say we're not telepathic. Well – not many of us are telepathic. Alright, _I'm _not telepathic. I tried I really did. But nothing worked. So Potter, if you need to tell me something I'm afraid those sentences need to be finished. Or use a new sentence. New sentences are good too. Just not unfinished ones. Because..."

"You talk too much," squeaked Harry.

"I do not," said Malfoy. "In fact, I resent that implication. I say the right thing, _all _the time. I'm a Malfoy. It's, like, well our skill – if you will – our trademark. We talk. People listen. And what we've said? Well, it's always perfect. Always. Every time. We are wordsmiths of rare skill, we are trained..."

"Malfoy, you horrendously insulted half our year within six months of arriving at Hogwarts," said Harry, sexual tension momentarily forgotten in the absurdity of what Malfoy was saying.

"Ah, but I insulted them with the perfect words," said Malfoy. "Didn't I?"

Harry blinked. "Mudblood?" he said.

"Exactly," said Malfoy, nodding. "What did I say? Perfect."

"No, Malfoy. Not perfect," began Harry. "Far from perfect. Immature, juvenile..."

"You know, Potter," interrupted Malfoy, smoothly. "We may want to leave the public stairwell of Flourish and Blotts before having this conversation. In fact, we may want to adjourn to the privacy of the Leaky Cauldron. Where, incidentally, there aren't any absurdly dressed, annoying little men recording our conversation."

"I take exception to that!" squeaked Ronald Quastel. His nose wrinkling underneath a horribly yellow hat. (And Harry hated to admit that Malfoy was right – about anything – but really, that hat was absurd.)

"I think I'll take this," said Malfoy conversationally, trying to snatch the notepad as Ronald patted said hat reassuringly.

"You can't do that!" he protested, fighting back.

"I think I can," said Malfoy. "Oh look, I did." He tucked the book inside his robe. "Come on, Potter, let's leave. There's just something about this place I find I can't stand." With a pointed glance in the journalists direction.

...

"I really don't get you, Malfoy," said Harry as they entered one of several private tearooms at the Leaky Cauldron.

"Get me?" asked Malfoy. "My dear Potter, I am an open book. You spent seven years with me at school, and you don't get me. Really I despair for the human race. Or well – the progeny of Potter anyway."

Harry just stared. "In what way are you an open book," he asked. "First you're the heir to all evil. Then you're the turncoat. Then the hero. And now, apparently an open book. I mean, I just don't get you."

"You know. I like that," said Malfoy, appreciatively. "The heir to all evil. Has a nice ring. But really, Potter. There's only one thing you need to understand to 'get me' – as you put it. I am selfish. Totally utterly and incontrovertibly selfish. I look out for myself, and my own. Everyone else can go hang. See, tada, open book."

Harry just stared. There was really no response to that. Because, well, Malfoy was selfish. But... well Harry had seen selfishness. He'd even been selfish himself for most of his life. He couldn't have survived the war if he hadn't been totally and utterly selfish. Sequestering himself from humanity until it had ended.

But Malfoy just wasn't a selfish Harry recognised.

There was grabby selfish. The sort that demanded everything 'at once, or else!' The protective selfish. It's mine so you can't touch. And the lazy selfish. The sort that sat on the lounge saying 'nope, my time's my own, you get none of it.'

And, okay, maybe Malfoy was a little of all of these. But he'd thrown himself in front of a curse for Snape (luckily just a hex for a bloody nose.) He'd spent hours during the war trying to convince his friends to flee. He'd hugged Molly Weasley when he'd thought no-one was watching, and told Charlie that Norbert really had gone to Dragon heaven.

No. Harry really didn't get Malfoy.

But then, maybe that was good. Maybe now he could truly get to know...

And, damn, there it was again. That – that _gayness_. He would be wearing a pink shirt any minute now. Because he didn't want to get Malfoy. He felt no urge to spend long afternoons in his company trying to plumb the mysteries of his soul. Really he didn't.

Because, Malfoy may be an enigma. A mystery. A fascinating, riddle of a person but Harry didn't care. Because all this touchy-feely stuff implied he was actually interested in Malfoy. Not just wanting to get into his pants. (Which admittedly...) But actually interested. As in, interested. And that was just not on.

"You really need to stop ticking yourself off," observed Malfoy. "I can see your brain hard at work lecturing from here."

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Harry.

"Alright, alright. I'm just saying. Gryffindors." The last was slung across his shoulder as he crossed the room. "Brandy?"

"Uh, no," said Harry. "And what do you mean 'Gryffindors'?"

"You're just all so bleedingly obvious," said Malfoy. "I mean, you walk around looking at me like I'm gorgeous and everyone in the street knows exactly where your interests lie. Your Weasley girl just needs to say your name and everyone in the vicinity is acutely aware you haven't actually slept with her. And the sexual tension between the Weasel and Granger. Well. Need I say more?"

"I don't..."

"You do, Potter. It's obvious. And anyway, I am gorgeous. So don't worry about it," said Malfoy as he sipped his brandy.

"But. You... I..." stuttered Harry.

"Get over it already, Potter. I'm not going to assault you, and I'm not going to tell anyone. Though, really, I'd be surprised if you don't do that yourself. Your face reads like... well like one of those muggle things. A Fellytision. You know, the pictures and lighting tell the story. Besides it's fashionable to have a crush on a guy. Everyone's doing it."

"You really do talk too much," said Harry. "Wont people be a little horrified at the thought of me, well, liking you? I thought we were enemies?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Malfoy.

"Scarface, git, Mudlover, freak..." intoned Harry.

"Oh," said Malfoy contemplatively. "I can maybe see where you're coming from. Be assured, most venerable Scarface, I am not your enemy. Only honest."

"Well. I can hardly tell Ron and Hermione that, can I?" said Harry. "Oh, yeah, your remember Malfoy. You know the Prince of Evil. Yeah. He didn't hate us. He was only being honest. They'd hardly get over six years that easily. I'm not sure _I'm _over six years that easily. "

"Oh, but I fought for you," said Malfoy. "You have to like me now." He drawled. "Lord, Potter, you're the one who decided I was gorgeous. I just, what's that muggle saying? 'Go with the flow.' I hardly hate you. Haven't hated you at all really. Not since Voldemort killed my parents. Have to say that shifted him rather closer to the top of my 'hatehatehate' list than you could hope to be. If you want to worship my body from afar, go right ahead. If anything I'll be flattered. You don't need to actually associate with me. Remember _I_ didn't initiate this meeting."

"No, but..." protested Harry.

"Look, I won't be a problem for much longer anyway," said Malfoy. "A few more weeks and I'll be back at Hogwarts. Then you can get on with your life. And worship me from an even greater distance."

"Oh," said Harry.

"What do you mean, 'oh'?" asked Malfoy. "Disappointed?"

"Not really," said Harry. "Though there is a flaw in that plan."

"Oh, you're not? Potter, tell me, you're not? You're the hero of the wizarding world. It's not like you have too," groaned Malfoy.

"Either you're really, really quick on the uptake, or you have the wrong idea entirely," said Harry. "What did you think I meant?"

"Obviously, you're returning to those hallowed halls of learning, you idiot. It's not like it could be anything else. Why, do you have to come back to Hogwarts? It's not like you need to."

"Maybe I do," said Harry.

"Well, maybe you don't," said Malfoy prevaricating.

"Not over those six years so easily then?" asked Harry.

"Maybe not," agreed Malfoy.

...

"What did you want to tell me, anyway?" asked Malfoy once they'd hunkered down and made a fair dint in the brandy bottle.

"Washn't important," slurred Harry.

"Come on, Potter. You followed me for three days, it must have been important," said Malfoy.

"Washn't. I wash consherned," said Harry. "Why aren't yoush drunk."

"Of course I'm drunk," replied Malfoy. "But apparently coherent. What a surprise. Normally I'm comatose by now."

"I think yoush is actually using more sy... sysh... syll... word sound things now, dan before," moaned Harry. "I need an interpretsher."

"You probably need someone all the time, the human language seems to be beyond you," said Malfoy. "Though, in your state I'd be surprised if you could actually handle words of more than one syllable. Let alone those of three or four," he looked contemplatively at the last of the alcohol. "Well, you could probably attempt them. But they'd have several superfluous and confusing 'sh' sounds resounding throughout."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," muttered Malfoy.

"Otay," murmured Harry.

Malfoy closed his eyes as he rested his head gently on the sofa's pillow. "What do you mean 'concerned', Potter?" He asked, a little sleepily.

"I wash wondering if yoush wash alright," Harry murmured, his voice muffled in red carpet that lay before the fire.

"Oh," said Malfoy, all sorts of uncomfortable squirmy feelings taking residence in his gut. "I'll think about it in the morning. Sleep now? Okay."

"'tay."

...

Typically when waking up hung-over Harry would be cataloguing in great detail and with a liberal use of hyperbole just how terrible he felt. But this morning it seemed he was not so much hung-over as still moderately inebriated.

He blinked blearily at his watch, one o'clock in the afternoon. Just how much had be drunk?

A lot, he realised as he looked at the twelve bottles lined neatly beside the couch. Maybe even more than a lot. Maybe an enormous – let's never tell Hermione, she'll kill us – amount.

Enough certainly for it to still be in his system several hours later.

"Malfoy," he muttered, poking the blond boy cautiously. "Just wanted to tell you, I'm going now."

Malfoy didn't move. Didn't even shift in his sleep. Barely even snorted.

"Malfoy," hissed Harry louder. "Malfoy."

No response.

"Come on, Malfoy, you git," moaned Harry, prodding harder. "You'd better wake up, or I'm going. Won't even be polite about it. Give Aunt Petunia an aneurism. Spent sixteen years trying to teach me manners, she did. Serve her right if I never use them."

Malfoy didn't even respond as Harry, admittedly still a little drunk, tried to pull his eyelids open.

"Wake up, you git," hissed Harry trying to roll him on his back.

Tugging at his arm and leg, ineffectually, before just giving in and heaving at his chest.

He gave a small yelp of alarm as Malfoy began to roll, and failed to stop. Rolling straight off the lounge and onto several empty alcohol bottles.

A series of discrete cracks emanated from beneath him, and Harry wondered just how badly he was hurt. Because... wasn't that blood seeping into the carpet. It was a red carpet, so it was hard to tell. But he could swear...

"Wake up, Malfoy!" he hissed. "Please," he added, as an afterthought.

He contemplated rolling Malfoy off the glass, but vague memories of a muggle First Aid certificate had him wondering if that was the right thing to do. Couldn't that just make it worse?

Of course, if he wasn't drunk there were hundreds of spells that could heal wounds and stem bleeding. He just couldn't remember them.

Well, he could maybe sort of... no.

But even if he could, it would probably be wisest not to use them. Seeing as how he was drunk. And probably couldn't even throw up accurately.

Apparently, though, he _could_ make red sparks. Very pretty red sparks. Which were maybe even crimson.

A.N. Of course there's another trip to Mungo's coming. But I promise, they'll reach Hogwarts soon. And the biggest, hugest thanks ever to anyone and everyone who reviewed. I have to say every word I get from someone whose read this makes me insanely happy.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: There is nothing new under the sun - and I am playing in JKR's sandbox here people.

**So here's the third chapter (finally) - In which several things happen, and the mystery deepens. And please, if you want more of this... let me know? I'll give you a cookie if you do :)  
**

Harry knew what it felt like to be drunk.

Over time he'd come to be rather familiar with the feeling. There had been times when a pounding headache had been his best friend. When the toilet bowl was the most attractive sight in the world, and the heavy loud thump of his heart had been all that could drown out the world.

Now though, he couldn't help but feel the hangover wasn't such a good idea.

He considered requesting a SoberUp potion from one of the medi-witches who were bustling around Malfoy's bed. He even got so far as an 'excuse me', before realising what a phenomenally stupid idea it was.

And he wasn't that stupid. At least not yet... not even under the influence.

Rita Skeeter had contacts everywhere. Thousands of people would be willing to carry all sorts of malicious stories to her because, and let's admit it, she paid bucket loads for any dirt on the world's favourite hero.

And if Harry said and did nothing to suggest he was drunk, then – despite hundreds, _thousands_, of bottles back at the apartment – no one had any proof he had ever been drinking.

"Mr. Potter?" the voice echoed in his ears and set off the percussion section of what felt like the London Vampiric Orchestra in his cochlea.

He forced himself not to cringe away.

"Yes?" he said tentatively.

"Mr. Malfoy: what can you tell me of his condition when you found him?"

Harry barely prevented himself from asking blearily _'found him?' _Because if the wonderful, wonderful personages of St Mungo's where under the misapprehension that he had _found_ Malfoy in this state (as opposed to say... _causing it_) then he wasn't going to say anything to disabuse them of the notion.

"He was asleep," said Harry, truthfully, "nothing I did would wake him up. And I thought he was bleeding."

"Mr. Malfoy is, I'm afraid, suffering from several skin lacerations. Though that isn't our main concern," said the medi-witch, in a true monotone. A monotone of disinterest and boredom. _Yay, for job satisfaction_, thought Harry, maybe they're not so wonderful , all fortuitous misunderstandings aside.

"Oh?" he asked.

"No, rather we are concerned by the Boolean curse that's infiltrated his bloodstream. I must ask," and apparently she really must, because her tone of voice suggested nothing resembling actual interest, "were you aware of the fact Mr. Malfoy was suffering from this disease?"

"Uh, no?" said Harry.

"In that case..." began the medi-witch advancing monotonously towards the end of the sentence. Thankfully Harry managed to interrupt before she even approached any punctuation.

"I did bring him in the other day, though," said Harry helpfully. "The medi-witch said there was nothing wrong with him."

"'The..." began the medi-witch.

"The other day, yes," said Harry. "To be exact..." he looked at his watch, realised it was the wrong one and restarted the sentence. "Or rather, to be sort of exact, three days ago when I found him in an alley unconscious."

"Comatose?" asked the medi-witch, thankfully monosyllabically.

"Yes," said Harry. "Just like this morning."

"And who was the medi-witch?" she asked, disinterestedly.

"Uh..." said Harry, because _who was the medi-witch? _ He couldn't recall a name. Had there been a name? A title? A job description? "Malfoy would probably know," said Harry eventually. "He had to sign the discharge papers." And yes hadn't that been the death of a rainforest. "I'm sure there must have been something in there about who was treating him."

"Mr. Malfoy, as I'm sure you're aware cannot currently answer any such questions," intoned the medi-witch.

Harry looked at her, because really: he was _hungover_ and apparently still more intelligent that she was. Because well, death of a rainforest and all that. "I just... wouldn't it be in the paperwork?" he said. "Because..."

"Mr. Potter, those are confidential patient files. Only a qualified..." finally there was emotion in her voice. She halted as the scandalized.

"And who would be qualified?" asked Harry, tiredly. The wizarding world was never logical. He should know that by now. He did know that by now. But for some reason he never lost hope.

"Only the High Healer," said the medi-witch.

"Well, can't he look at them then?" said Harry.

"The High Healer..." began the medi-witch, looking affronted, as if the question had lynched her in an alley and proceeded to attack her personally.

"Let me guess," interrupted Harry. "The High Healer cannot be asked because he is such an important personage, high and mighty, and all that?"

The medi-witch visibly agreed. Her entire body getting in on the nod. Swaying a little.

"Tell him the hero of the wizarding world disagrees," said Harry. "I want to see him here in ten minutes." He didn't add an '_or else_' but it was there.

...

Of course, nothing was every simple in the wizarding world. Wizards placed too high a value on tradition, ceremony and archaic rituals to just let them go without a fight.

Look at the clothes wizards wore. Sure they looked good. Stunning and wizardly... and stunning. And all. But really, they weren't practical. Most wizards when they got home and closed the door stripped off the robes and jumped into the nearest pair of slacks. Because robes were part of the performance, keeping face amongst ones fellow wizards. It was peer pressure on the rampage.

But tradition demanded wizards wear robes. And so, in public, they did.

Tradition also demanded other, even sillier, things.

It demanded that every wizard have a familiar, despite the fact using animals for magic had been banned several years ago on grounds of animal cruelty. It demanded that wizards use Latin, a language hundreds of year's dead, to speak they're spells – when any language, spoken with the right intent, would work just as well.

It demanded the use of wands, when only very weak wizards needed something to channel their power.

Tradition was silly. But precious, like money was precious. Because it was a make believe currency that could be traded in for power and prestige.

Entire Families made their reputations on tradition.

The Malfoy's had been one of only twelve families in wizarding Britain that had keep purely to the old ways. Feared and respected they were the closest thing to royalty the wizarding world had ever had.

And then Harry had destroyed Voldemort and every one of those families had been destroyed with him.

Whether or not they had actually been loyal to the Dark Lord. Being loyal to the old ways had been enough.

The last of the Malfoy's was the last free child of the twelve.

It was a time for reform. And Harry knew that several of his friends were at the centre of the changes. And though he hadn't felt the spirit of the post-war revolution rise in him, there were some traditions that just needed to be turned on their heads.

Such as archaic rules about talking to the Head Healer.

...

Aptly named the Head Healer seemed to be nothing more than a receding hairline. Harry came away from his discussion with him with the distinct impression of 'not-quiet-bald' and an annoyingly persistent temptation to run his hand across his scalp every three seconds.

But he had succeeded. He had a name.

The Medi-witch was apparently a Sister Loretta De Varcie. A veteran of Mungo's. With a reputation for having a personality thoroughly at odds with her healing hands.

Even the Head Healer had paled a little when he'd read her name. But Harry had come away having secured a promise for a full and thorough investigation. He didn't know what they would find. They didn't know what they would find. But Harry hadn't survived a war without developing a sixth sense for things that were _fishy_.

It had taken several assassination attempts and three seductions (to which he'd been totally and absolutely oblivious - until the clothes started coming off) but he'd woken one morning and started reading people with the natural ability he'd had when he'd first flown a broom.

Of course, he was still oblivious ninety percent of the time, but from choice – not ignorance.

...

Once Harry was back in Malfoy's room he stopped at the foot of the bed. Wondering just why he'd come back.

It wasn't like there was anything he could do here. Or any reason to stay.

One of several suitably awed interns had promised to contact him immediately should Malfoy wake. And the Head Healer had hinted very strongly that any individual investigation Harry chose to take would be frowned upon.

Not that Harry wasn't tempted to try and discover what he could about Malfoy's situation. But well... blatant threats apparently – unfortunately – hadn't died with Voldemort.

Prosecution for Invasion of Privacy would not be a good look on the-boy-who-lived. Harry knew this. As did the Head Healer. Who'd made sure to tell him so, threateningly.

Indeed Prosecution for anything at all wouldn't look good. And the Head Healer had threatened to throw so much mud in Harry's direction that Harry had actually lost count of the issues over which he could be taken to court. And mud once flung was almost impossible to wash off. Harry knew this too.

Just like he knew a story would hit the Prophet tomorrow about said hero standing for an inappropriate amount of time at the bedside of his former enemy.

Which was why he should leave. He really should.

Sitting down was not an option. Not really. Nor was shifting the chair closer. And closer still. And tentatively touching Malfoy's hand.

In fact, touching was so far from being an option Harry had no idea whose hand had grasped Malfoy's, until of course, that treacherous part of his brain reserved for being practical observed that it was his.

Supplying it's now familiar plaintive of '_why the hell can't you lust after someone normal?'_ Before being ruthlessly squashed by the majority of his mind that was revelling in just how soft Malfoy's skin felt.

And _fuck_, he was so _doomed_.

...

"Merlin, Potter we really need to stop meeting like this," muttered Malfoy trying to clamber from the bed, and managing to get amusingly tangled in the sheets in the process.

"You're telling me," muttered Harry trying to help Malfoy untwist the blanket from his legs and prevent the inevitable faceplant on the floor.

"Stop," groaned Malfoy battering his hands away, "you're only making things worse."

Harry stepped back and watched as Malfoy twisted the wrong way and faceplanted on the floor.

"I know, I know," murmured Harry, bending to help him up. "That was all my fault, wasn't it?"

"Merlin Potter, You really do like me, don't you?" said Malfoy once Harry had him sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Blanket pushed to the side.

Harry blushed. Which he thought answered the question rather more honestly than he'd intended.

"No," he offered.

"Liar," said Malfoy.

"Maybe," muttered Harry, rubbing the back of his neck.

"So what's wrong with me this time?" asked Malfoy, almost brightly. "Wait, let me guess. Nothing."

"Uh, well, no," Harry said. Sitting back down in the chair, which comfortable though it may be, hadn't made the best bed. "Apparently you have a Boolean Curse."

Malfoy blanched went white as a sheet and almost fell off the bed again.

"_Fuck,_" cried Harry jumping forwards only to pat his arm awkwardly. "Are you all right?"

"No," hissed Malfoy through clenched teeth. "Just where do you get off Potter, just where the _fuck_ do you get off?"

"What?" asked Harry. Genuinely puzzled because _What?!_

Malfoy was fumbling at a dressing gown, pushing his arms roughly into the sleeves. Refusing to even look at Harry. He was still pale. And... Harry felt his stupid, stupid heart clench as he watched Malfoy's lips quiver.

And then he was gone and Harry was left clutching idiotically at a blanket wondering _what?_

...

"Hermione!" Harry bellowed, entering the Burrow.

"Harry, how nice to see you," said Molly from the head of the table as an awkward silence fell over the dining room. "Would you like some dinner."

"Uh, no... sorry Mrs. Weasley," Harry paused in the doorway and scrubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to talk to Hermione."

"So we all heard mate," said Ron lightly, "come on, have some dinner, then you can talk to 'Mione."

Awkwardly Harry sat down next to Ron. Wishing he could disappear, and strangely glad that having food in his mouth was as good an excuse as any for not... you know, speaking.

The awkward silence held reign for several minutes. Only broken by George cracking some lame, lame joke about spiders and causing Ron to spit in his soup.

Silence duly broken Hermione and Ginny struck up a conversation about the GlitterGirls, one of the most recent pop sensations in the wizarding world. Ron spent ten minutes holding court on the marvels of the musician named Archangel and Mrs. Weasley held firm that no-one would ever destroy her faith in Celestina Warbeck.

Harry sat uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he had something witty to say about... well, anything. Anything at all.

Feeling incurably awkward was fast becoming old.

He shifted uneasily. And stared at his plate. Twirling the strands of pasta about his fork, but not actually eating anything.

Truthfully? Feeling awkward _sucked._

Dinner took forever to finish and Harry found he was itching for the chance to push his chair away from the table. Not only because he had to accost Hermione for information - Vital information. Right Now! – but also because he was feeling uncomfortably as though he was there under false pretences.

It wasn't like he'd ever promised Ginny or anything. But everyone seemed to assume he had. And she kept sending him those hurt little looks.

And someone's foot kept brushing his leg. Almost apologetically, and he was sure it wasn't Hermione's.

He felt an absolute coward... and really rather bad. Because Ginny shouldn't be the one apologising.

Even if it was through such a particularly nausea inducing method.

And he really needed to sort out that particular tangled mess of a relationship before he made it worse.

But really, if there was one thing he didn't want to have to do tonight it was break some girls heart for no good reason. Because dammit, he was in the middle of having his own heart broken, and really it just wasn't fair.

Eventually dinner ended. Molly shooed them from the table and Harry dragged Hermione into Mr. Weasley's study before anyone could register what was happening.

...

"Harry, what on earth do you want?" asked Hermione. Maybe just a little peeved by his proprietary treatment of her arm. But he hadn't grabbed her that hard. Honest.

"What is a Boolean Curse?" Harry gabbled just a little. Because he'd just spent an hour pretending he wanted to eat when really all he wanted to do was get an answer. Any answer. Preferably a good one. But really, any answer. To this question. And nothing was going to stop him from asking it now.

"A Boolean... Harry..." her eyes widened a little and Harry realised just how misleading his question had been when she asked, "are you all right?"

Really, the answer would be no. Because, well all weird lust issues aside he hadn't actually slept properly in... oh, three days? Unless you count passing out drunk. Which he didn't. Because well. Comatose did not equal asleep.

"I'm fine, 'Mione," he said reassuringly.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not," she accused. "When did you last sleep?"

And well... er...

"'Mione, I really am fine. Really. Couldn't be better – I just... It's – well... I can't explain...Please..." And really, Harry has heard gabble before, even heard gabble on level with the drivel his mouth is producing, but well... if 'Mione could form that sentence into something meaningful, then she's a mind reader.

Harry really, really wants her to be a mind-reader. Because he just doesn't have the _patience_ to have to explain it to someone. He's not sure he _can_ explain it to someone.

'It' being of course the entire fuckedupedness that has been the past week. 'It' being Draco Malfoy. 'It' being all the stupididioticstupid feelings that have lodged in his chest – taken up residence and refused to move. 'It' being something he thought might be lustlovehope all tangled up together and revolving around a stupid git with stupid blond hair.

All he wanted was an answer. Not a lecture. Not a calming influence, not someone who'd help him realise just how stupid it was to think he'd fallen in love with someone he'd always thought of as an enemy. Not someone who'd point out that there is no such thing as instantaneous love. He just wanted a friend who would, maybe, help him figure it out by himself.

"Harry?" 'Mione asked quietly obviously wondering just what made him snap. What finally broke him. Just which straw was too much for the camel's back.

"Is this about what happened to Seamus?"

And... Seamus?

Harry almost gaped at her. Would gape at her if it weren't for that fact that something in his brain clicked over and he gasps, "Seamus, yes."

Because... Seamus. Poor, poor, Seamus hit by a curse in the middle of the battlefield dead by the time Harry arrived. A friend he'd mourned, one amongst many. But... he'd never been told why Seamus had died. And Hermione obviously thinks he's asking.

And maybe he is. Maybe a Boolean Curse is...

"Oh, Harry," Hermione throws her arms around his neck and mumbles something incoherent into his shoulder. "I told the others you'd want to know. But they said... at the time... too much for you... too hard..."

And Harry knows now why no-one had ever told him how his friends had died. They'd had to give him the list of the dead. (Oh, yes he'd insisted on that.) But when the war was over and he'd left. Hurting and (he thought) alone – no-one had ever thought to tell him how several of those close to him had died.

But... Seamus.

"There wasn't anything we could do Harry," says 'Mione. Earnestly. Reassuringly. "There's really nothing anyone can do."

And... oh... so not the answer Harry was hoping for.

"I don't know how to explain... except. Muggles have cancer Harry. Wizards have curses like the Boolean."

"But Seamus died instantly?" says Harry, wondering, thinking how in hell has Malfoy managed to survive? Seamus died. Instantly. And Muggle cancer kills. Not instantly. But...

"It's exactly like cancer Harry," Hermione said. "And Seamus had the equivalent of a tumour explode in his frontal lobe. There was nothing anyone could do."

"Oh," muttered Potter. Just: "Oh."

...

"Malfoy, I know you're in there," hissed Harry at the crack between door and lintel. "I bribed the chambermaid. She saw you go in. Malfoy. Malfoy!"

"Merlin, Potter. Your stalkerish tendencies surprise even me," Malfoy observed as Harry stumbled into his room.

"I'm not a stalker," protested Harry, carefully righting his glasses.

"You could have fooled me," commented Malfoy, making his way back towards the bed. Whereupon he crawled under the covers. "Couldn't you just leave me to die in peace?"

"No," muttered Harry to the carpet. "No," he said more loudly. "I asked Hermione."

"About leaving me to..." began Malfoy.

"No," said Harry. "About you know, the Boolean thingy."

"The Boolean thingy," said Malfoy in an almost, yep definitely, irate tone. Sitting up to give Harry the best of his scathing looks. "Only you Potter could diminish a deadly, nay terminal curse. One that will be the cause of my tragic untimely demise and lower it to the lever of 'the Boolean thingy.' Only you Potter."

After which he collapsed back on the bed.

"There's no cure," Harry said – semi asking.

"No Potter, there is no cure. As you would have known had you two brain-cells to knock together and half a tendency to listen to what people are trying to tell you." Draco intoned staring up at the ceiling.

"But you can't die," Harry said. More to himself than Malfoy. Well, truthfully all to himself. Selfish, selfish Potter. Malfoy can't die - you've only just realised you have a crush on him. No way can he die before you sort out your self-inflicted mess of emotions.

"Not that it's personal or anything," said Malfoy, "but I can. Though the Medi-witches – charlatans that they are – have given me at least a year. I mean, what a _fucking_ arbitrary timeframe in which to live out the rest of your life." Then to Harry's absolute horror he burst into tears.

Well, maybe not so much burst as squelched.

There was none of the usual desperate sobbing or useless histrionics the Harry normally associated with crying. He just lay there with water leaking out his eyes and into his hair, still staring at the ceiling.

And, Merlin, was Harry bad at this.

So, so bad. Terrible, in fact. Tentatively he sidled towards the bed. Inching forward as silently as he could manage. Worried that if he made a noise Malfoy would _do something_. He had no idea what, but was of the decided opinion that if the squelching escalated he would become exponentially more useless. And, well Malfoy had just found out he was going to _die_. Harry wasn't so self centred that he didn't want to help him.

Saying 'there, there' and patting him on the shoulder didn't seem to help any though.

In fact, if anything, Malfoy's not-crying just seemed to become even more squelchy, and Harry's commiserations even more desperate. "Shh," he whispered softly. "Shh."

Somehow Harry's hand found its way into Malfoy's hair, running its way through the sweat slick and, actually rather oily, strands.

"Shh, it's all right," murmured Harry running his hand across Malfoy's forehead and through his hair. "It's all going to be all right."

Believe me, believe me, Harry chanted, believe me, it's all going to be all right.

But Malfoy stared at him with bluegreyblue eyes and nothing was ever going to be all right ever again.

"Even you can't make promises like that Potter," said Malfoy. "Not even you," and then he reached up and twisted until his face was hidden in Harry's shoulder mumbling. "Not Merlin, fucking even you."

...

Harry wasn't sure how it happened but he found himself waking up in bed with Malfoy.

Well, truthfully he found himself waking up _on top_ of the bed that just by chance happened to have Malfoy in it.

The night before was just a little bit of a blur. There had been a lot of crying involved and tissues. And general uselessness on his part. But Malfoy had calmed down eventually and fallen to sleep. And really Harry hadn't been about to complain about the fact that there was an elbow poking into his stomach or that the arm Malfoy had decided to use as a pillow was just a little numb.

He'd just frozen as still as possible and finally given into an exhausted sleep.

But now he was awake.

And his arm was still numb and Malfoy was sighing gently in his ear as he slept.

"Malfoy?" Harry hissed. "Malfoy wake up."

Malfoy just flung an arm over Harry's waist proprietarily and tugged him closer.

"Er..." said Harry, "you really probably had better should wake up right about now." Malfoy's arm warm and solid across his stomach. Malfoy's breath, warm and damp in his ear. "This really isn't a good idea," he hissed. "And you're going to kill me when you wake up."

"Why would I kill you Potter?" asked Malfoy yawning a little and blinking sleepily into Harry's startled face.

"Fuck," said Harry almost falling off the bed as he scrambled away. "You're awake."

"I thought that was the idea," said Malfoy sitting up and pulling the quilt cover with him. "You were speaking rather loudly into my ear Potter, and the actual words 'wake up Malfoy' were used. If you wanted me to stay asleep I'm afraid you chose the wrong tactical approach."

"Well," croaked Harry, "er..."

"You really are permanently incoherent, aren't you Potter?" said Malfoy flopping back on the bed.

"Er, no?" said Harry.

"Um, yes," said Malfoy.

"Er..." said Harry as Malfoy gave an inelegant snort.

"How are you, ah, feeling?" said Harry, as a peace offering.

"Like shit," said Malfoy practically. "I can't wait to get out of this place. Do you know how bad this bed has been for my back?"

"Bad?"

"Really bad," confirmed Malfoy. "But, only four days now Potter, and we'll be back in Hogwarts." He sighed happily. "Where you can be heroic and I can snark unmercifully, and the mattress won't cause fatal subluxation of my spine. Going back to school never seemed half so fun."

"So you're still planning on going back to Hogwarts?" asked Harry awkwardly.

"Of course I am," said Malfoy gazing at Harry. "If I'm going to die Potter, I'd like to die at home."

Harry blinked. And then almost exclaimed something soppy and stupid like, _oh, you think of it as home too! _But instead said, "fuck, yes, I can't wait to be home too."

A/N: Again huge enourmous thanks to every single person who took the time to review. You know who you are.


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